


The FFFFinal Gambit

by distantstarlight



Series: 12 Lays of Christmas [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Declarations Of Love, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock has goals, being sweet together, more fluff than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 13:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13482219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has finally figured out what it is that John needs and is very determined to give it to him.





	The FFFFinal Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently your fic doesn't post itself after it's been written. Apologies for the delay, I'm so disorganised.
> 
> d

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a _nice_ man. His brilliance was virtually unmatched, his natural skills honed to a fine edge through rigorous study and endless self-improvement. He was also abrasive, blunt, insensitive, dismissive, _and a sulking brat_ , but if you were going to list everything you would be going on for days. The more you learned about Sherlock Holmes made you aware of how much there was yet to discover about his complex personality, not that anyone got that far. He didn’t have friends, so he said because honestly, who would want to befriend someone like him?

Well, quite a few people actually. DI Lestrade exuded a kind of weary fatherliness, providing interesting cases and access to crime scenes. He’d helped Sherlock sort his life out, gave him goals to achieve and boundaries to perform within. In short, the ever miss-named DI acted as a one-man cheer squad and life-coach combined, never running out of patience or forgiveness for Sherlock’s many slips and errors. Greg taught Sherlock how to work with others, not well, but as best as he could manage considering the various barriers between Sherlock and the rest of the world. Lestrade had never made Sherlock feel guilty for being so brilliant, nor awkward for being so strange. Instead, the DI had enabled Sherlock to explore his macabre interests in a beneficial manner. In return, Sherlock worked with Lestrade almost exclusively, attending to crimes with other DI’s _only if_ Lestrade asked him personally.

Doctor Hooper was someone Sherlock was comfortable with, so much so that he barely chastised her at all for continuously trying to chat him up. Sherlock always gave a mental sigh and internally reviewed his operating protocols for when he was in the company of an unattached single party such as herself, realizing that he’d yet again wandered across the border between pleasant and flirtatious. He was trying to be engaging but not to the degree where he’d invite propositions for coffee which was code for a date which leads to either coitus on a one-off basis or an extended relationship. Sherlock wasn’t interested in anyone for anything but what information their minds might contain that would help him solve crimes. Molly, as she insisted on being called, was a brilliant pathologist yet she seemed to measure her success based on the status of her personal life, rather than her paid skills. Sherlock found that to be incomprehensible. He was the Work, he loved it, was devoted to it, it encompassed his life. How could anything or anyone possibly compete with the Work? She needed to stop trying.

Mrs Hudson, well, Mrs Hudson was Mrs Hudson and didn’t require explaining. It would be like trying to explain why a hot cuppa was just the thing for nearly any occasion. You just understood or you didn’t.  She provided the sturdy physical framework that sustained his life, a home and hearth return to, the occasional meal and doting scolding. She’d had a wild and colourful life, and taught Sherlock many practical things about being fully alive. She was amusing as well and filled with fascinating stories that expanded Sherlock’s perceptions through the filter of her experiences. That he doted on her in return was just another thing that didn’t bear mentioning, and he always got huffy if anyone brought it up.

Then there was John Watson. John deserved more than a mental paragraph because he was the one human being who made _trying a bit harder_ not so repellent. Anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes even a bit, and that was a rare handful, knew how differently he treated John compared to anyone else. Oh, he lied and manipulated as much as anywhere else in his life, it kept his talents sharp to do so, and frankly, John expected it, it kept his own skills honed. John was a military doctor and had a knack for winkling out information a reluctant or possibly embarrassed, patient might be trying to not refer to, and it worked on Sherlock too. John kept the detective fed, watered, and sewn back together when required, no matter the protests and complaints. Sherlock kept experiments in the fridge next to their food, and still refused to do the shopping, but John enjoyed being in control of all of that even if he didn’t get on with self-check-out. Sherlock _could_ be arsed to call for takeaway, but nothing could make him go downstairs to retrieve it. John would do it, crankily extracting folding cash from Sherlock’s own wallet to pay for a tip, just to annoy Sherlock, which it didn’t. The doctor was welcome to all of Sherlock’s money, especially if it meant that he didn’t need to deal with annoying things like paying bills or queuing up at the bank to cash cheques from clients. John just rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently, grousing his way back and forth through their little world, cleaning up after Sherlock and occasionally breaking people a bit if the occasion required it. Really, he was quite perfect as a partner and a friend and Sherlock repaid him that connection by keeping John’s heart racing and his reflexes keen. Whenever John was in a bit of a mood, Sherlock made certain to steer them toward a decent punch-up or other adrenaline rousing activity, just to keep his soldier content. John’s needs coincided beautifully with Sherlock’s likes, so really, he was keeping them both happy.

One of Sherlock’s more abundant qualities, apart from his brilliance, beauty, and child-like curiosity, was his greed. Sherlock was a greedy _greedy_ man. Living with the soldier had whetted an appetite he hadn’t even known he possessed and it was ravenous. John offered everything that the detective found appealing; he was dangerous, unpredictable, oddly demure about his endlessly vast array of hidden skills, and an incomparably loyal assistant in the field and elsewhere. John was a finely tuned instrument that had been tossed aside as if he were useless but he wasn’t. He was a surprise, a potentially lethal yet paradoxically nurturing surprise. The moment Sherlock met John, he knew he wanted more, so more and that the fastest way to get it was to move in together. Sherlock wanted everything, the complete package, the elusive _all_ that all souls seemed to instinctively seek, and he wanted in the form of one Captain John Hamish Watson, MD, late of the _5 th Northumberland Fusiliers_. He wanted _all_ of John, and despite his social short-comings, Sherlock bolstered his odds by applying his many skills to calculate the path to successfully obtaining his goal of _all_.

His attempts were both a resounding success and a complete failure, his attempts to flirt or otherwise engage John completely misinterpreted. Sherlock realized that he’d made a dreadful error right off by telling John the ridiculous fib about being married to his work. The work was fascinating, certainly, but the work wasn’t John. It was a problem. John kept dating women, and even went on to get married to one, though it hadn’t lasted, yet _their_ closeness endured. Sherlock was a logical man. He wasn’t giving up just because the first series of attempts had failed. He knew he was close to a resolution, all the pieces were there, he just needed to figure out how it all went together and that took time.

Sherlock Holmes believed in facts and science, in hard evidence and quantifiable proof. Everyone knew this, it wasn’t a secret. What wasn’t known quite so well was that Sherlock Holmes was also a bit of a soppy sentimental romantic. He secretly celebrated anniversaries for all sorts of odd things, the day John moved in, the first time he’d gotten to give John stitches instead of John being the one holding the needle, or _Sock Darning Day_ , in remembrance of the afternoon John had used all his remaining surgical skill to resuscitate one of Sherlock’s favourite novelty socks. They’d been a gag gift from Lestrade, just silly socks that glowed in the dark but were worn at the heel. John had sat at the kitchen table sewing tiny perfect stitches in matching threads until it was whole again. Sherlock also hung onto memorabilia like a raven, hiding glittery little proofs of his life amongst the detritus of their front room.

The few who knew him smiled at his habits, rolled their eyes, or shrugged their shoulders, dismissing his collections as just another oddity. John, faithful blogger that he was, rooted it all out and bound it together in an album for Sherlock to flip through, happily reminiscing over past meals and rail trips. John supported Sherlock in whatever way required. The soldier had been awakened by his friendship with Sherlock and both men knew that all the years before they’d met had been gloomy as well as lonely, and it was good to have proof in hand that better times had been enjoyed. Those simple pleasures had been enough for Sherlock, now he needed to figure out how to reciprocate in a way that allowed John to feel the depth of his best friend’s regard.

John liked the big holidays and loved nothing better than to join his fellow humans in whatever celebration was on the calendar that day. He celebrated holidays and events from all around the world, his collection of personal acquaintances was global thanks to his stint in the army as well as his international medical training. John was a man who was lucky to be alive and knew it, enjoying his life as fully as he could whenever the opportunity arose. He normally went out, but this year Sherlock was determined to keep John at the flat. He had long-term plans and goals, and all of them required John’s presence. Sherlock let John go to work without complaint. He’d even sat at the table and eaten half a slice of dry toast and sipped his John-brewed and therefore perfect tea. The doctor was very pleased and consumed the other half of Sherlock’s plain breakfast with a grin, and a departed with a cheery offer to pick up dinner after, “No, don’t worry John, there’s something I want to try.” John left, whistling as he made his way out of the building and into the world.

Sherlock set to work the moment John was out of sight. He hated Christmas, but John really loved it. It was the twenty-first of December, and Sherlock had made plans to make this the best Christmas John had ever experienced at Baker Street, admittedly not a terribly lofty goal, given their history here, but still. Mrs Hudson tittered in the background, providing regular rounds of tea, and doling out hearty assortments of biscuits to help fuel his transport. Her face was filled with pride and a great deal of affection, all of which Sherlock pretended to ignore but privately delighted in. He liked making her happy nearly as much as he enjoyed doing so for John. With sleeves unbuttoned and rolled back, his bespoke trousers riding up at the ankles a bit, Sherlock made his way up and down the step-ladder Mrs Hudson had loaned him, guided by her soft-spoken suggestions and gentle hints.

Several boxes had been hidden in Mrs Hudson’s spare bedroom, and she’d been happy to do so. He was sweating lightly by the time he finished hauling them up, one at a time. Sherlock used a staple gun to affix lights and garlands while Mrs Hudson unpacked a large assortment of delicate ornaments and other decorations, laying them out on the coffee table or mantle. When he was done that phase he set up a tree. He knew it was cheating a bit doing it so early, but the point was to _surprise_ John and he couldn’t just decorate the flat and then try to re-surprise John with a tree later. He compromised and had purchased an artificial tree that came with fibre-optic lights built in. John’s shift wasn’t a full one and he knew he wouldn’t have time to fuss with stringing lights.

Mrs Hudson was moving on with her next job, which was transferring now unpackaged glitter drenched pretties into a large hand-basket. Sherlock had purchased every ridiculous one he could locate, knowing John had a fondness for odd things. The basket was piled high before she was done, and Sherlock set it under the tree for when John came home from work.

Task complete, they took a break. Mrs Hudson had an herbal soother, and Sherlock joined her, feeling a bit guilty about it but then shrugging it off because Mrs Hudson rarely asked for company when she did so. It was well into the afternoon, and even with the slightly longer than required break, they had time for the next phase of their plans.

Cooking with Mrs Hudson was always entertaining. She was the one responsible for instructing Sherlock on the more basic of the homely arts, teaching him how to be self-sufficient on his own, something he’d never been taught growing up in wealthy isolation. Scrambling eggs for the first time had been a mess, but now Sherlock was skilled enough to take on complex meals, as long as she stayed relatively nearby to monitor while he laboured over adapting his laboratory skills to the kitchen. Mrs Hudson sat at the table, chatting while Sherlock did the actual work, providing her with ingredients to companionably prepare while he cooked. When everything was safely in the oven to slowly cook, they went to her flat where Sherlock helped the elderly woman with her coat and suitcase. Kissing her on each cheek, Sherlock bid her farewell, even sending his good wishes as well as a bottle of fine wine to be presented to her sister during their once-a-month regular visit. Sherlock had just enough time to shower and change into something casual, taking the time to shave himself closely.

When John came home he found Sherlock in the kitchen, his aubergine shirt tucked into his tightly fitted trousers, stirring a heavy-bottomed pot carefully, “Go on and have a wash, this will keep until you are done.” The doctor’s smile was genuinely delighted, though he didn’t say a word about the dramatically altered ambience of their home.

John said nothing but did smile broadly one more time and inhaled deeply. With a sharp nod, he took himself away and did as he was told. Sherlock smiled to himself as he listened to John showering and smiled even further when it went on for slightly longer than necessary for a fast washup. His suspicions were confirmed when John returned twenty minutes later wearing his second-nicest trousers, and his least hideous jumper. The soldier had also taken time to shave a second time, removing the afternoon stubble that he normally just ignored. “It’s just chicken.” An entire roast bird filled with a sausage stuffing, and accompanied by heaps of veg of all sorts, and topped with a thick rich gravy. John was nearly drooling by the time his serving was set in front of him.

Dinner was enjoyed amidst a constant stream of compliments. John smiled the whole time and Sherlock felt warm inside. When they were done, Sherlock piled the dirty dishes in the sink for later, and nudged John toward the front room, “Brilliant!” John’s face was open and filled with a brightness Sherlock seldom got to see. John was always so serious, even grim sometimes. He had a fantastic if dark sense of humour, but his life had erased many of his reasons for laughing and tainted most of his happy moments with sad reminisces. This holiday was often the worst for that, despite his cheerful efforts, and that was part of why Sherlock had done this, “I haven’t done a tree up since…”

“I know, John.” Sherlock knew how long it had been since John had reason to enjoy the holidays. Christmas at the Holmes house had ended rather horribly. The Christmases before that had been filled with grief. The first Christmas here had been the best of the lot, and even that had been only modestly tolerable, ending with John losing his girlfriend and Sherlock miserable with jealous loneliness. _This year would be different._ Against the odds, they were together again at 221 B Baker Street. Despite everything, new scars and all, they’d both survived years of unpleasant surprises and even less enjoyable separations. There were no more chances to lose, no more opportunities to allow to slip by. It was time.

John was a devoted homebody, a caretaker, a nurturer. John needed to be able to have his domesticity right next to his gunfights, so Sherlock had planned accordingly. The case they’d solved this week had been suitably violent, enough to sate John’s warrior nature, so now it was time to let the fluffier side of his character express itself. John was a marvel of evolution. Sherlock knew a great deal about John. He had observed him carefully during their many investigations as well as during their more domestic moments. John was a sublime example of basic human nature, effortlessly following the need to respond to the urge to fight, flee, feed, or fuck.

As a flatmate, Sherlock had initially supplied the scenario where John could fight, followed by the need to flee authorities and their burgeoning suspicions. Sherlock had directly taken care of John’s need to feed by bringing him to his favourite Chinese for a very late dinner, but in all their years together, Sherlock had not taken care of one of John’s most cherished basic needs – the need to fuck. This week had been a busy one, the last three cases they’d worked had ended with rather vigorous tussles, an extended chase for one of them, and being chased in return before Lestrade finally showed up to pull his weight. John was _nearly_ completely fulfilled, and tonight was the night Sherlock began to close that circle. “Everything looks brilliant, Sherlock, just brilliant.”

They spent an enjoyable hour laughing and hanging baubles onto their tree, genially arguing about placement, and indulging in far more touching than was required. Neither man remarked that their hands lingered on shoulders or backs, or that they stood so much closer than normal. John unnecessarily gripped Sherlock’s hips when the consulting detective reached up to place the tree topper he’d selected, a model of an atom that also looked like a star. It made John laugh and hold Sherlock’s hips a tiny bit tighter.

He didn’t let go, not even after the tree topper was securely in place. Sherlock stood there with John standing behind him, holding him firmly. He smiled and closed his eyes as he allowed John to take the next step, the final step he’d been waiting for. John did not disappoint. Sherlock felt their bodies meet as John stepped closer still, pressing himself against Sherlock’s back, his hips neatly meeting Sherlock’s backside. John’s hands slid forward and up, slowly but firmly exploring across Sherlock’s belly and chest, “Okay?”

“More than.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. Everything was going better than planned. He’d needed to say nothing, do nothing. John was taking this step all on his own. John seemed greedy to touch, as greedy as Sherlock was to be touched. Sherlock found himself being turned around so that John could claim his first kiss. It was hungry and full of promise. John wasn’t shy about taking control, and gratefully, Sherlock let him. Sherlock wanted everything that happened to be a choice that John made, something that could not be denied, something tangible that they could build upon.

He had nothing to fear. John was ravenous, but his appetite was tempered with a self-control that Sherlock had never needed to learn. In no time, Sherlock was aroused almost beyond reason but John kept his head, slowly guiding his friend away from the living room, kissing their way unhurriedly up to John’s bedroom.

Sherlock was eager as well as uncertain. He knew he wanted this with John, but he had no basis of comparison with which to judge what was happening to him. John seemed to read his worries off his face, for once being the one who knew first. “I won’t do anything to hurt you, nothing that makes you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock trusted John, that’s why they were here now. Sherlock had never trusted someone the way he trusted John. John knew Sherlock and liked him. His hands on Sherlock’s body were warm, they grounded him in the moment. He looked into John’s eyes, “If we do this, I’ll never settle for less again, not ever.” Sherlock felt that fair warning was required before they irrevocably changed their relationship. Right now a few kisses could be excused but not more. It was up to John to decide.

“Do you promise, Sherlock?” John’s eyes were intense, “You get bored easily. Will you be bored of this too?”

Sherlock couldn’t lie to John, not here and now, “I might in time but this is just _one_ part of what might be. I want all of it, forever. I’ve never been tired or reluctant to be with you, you are my _always_. I want to have every bit of you and never need to share, I want you to be just for me the way I can only ever be just for you. There will never be someone else for me, John.” Sherlock wasn’t sure how to be plainer than that.

It seemed to be the right thing to say because while John’s eyes were still intense, focused, they were also filled with something more, something Sherlock hadn’t quite expected to see. There was something there, something more than fondness. Love. John was looking at him with love in his eyes. It was overwhelming. “Forever it is, then, don’t forget.”

Everything that followed was far more romantic and loving than he could have imagined if he’d been the sort of man to imagine tender caresses and gentle coaxing touches. Instead of rough and primal sex, John took pains to make Sherlock physically feel the love the soldier felt for him. There was nothing frightening or unwelcome during their love play. John taught Sherlock how to feel the sensations he provided, how to let his body do what came naturally to it, how to temporarily let go the strict discipline he held over his flesh, to let someone else be in charge for a while. Their first orgasm together was intense enough to wring tears from Sherlock’s eyes, and John looked so grateful for the chance to have given that to him, to have shared it with each other.

Sherlock was astonished and more than a little humbled that this brave, broken, and relentless man held him in such high esteem. Sherlock wasn’t worthy of someone who was as pure inside as John Watson was. Sherlock was a junkie, a liar, a manipulator, a ripper of veils, a ravenous devourer of information. What few faults blackened John’s character could not hold a match to the gaping vortex of Sherlock’s soul. Somehow John negated that. He didn’t need to change Sherlock, they fitted one another naturally. Now that they were together, Sherlock could to rage and rail as he needed, all the while safely cocooned within the unbreakable embrace of John’s love.

They never said the words, not yet at least. For John and Sherlock, words were inadequate. They demonstrated their love with touch, each man watching his lover’s responses, feeling his reactions. Sherlock learned a great deal in a relatively short amount of time. He learned that his body was responsive and rapacious. He learned that submitting was something he enjoyed, that have John take control of him was the best most pleasing way for Sherlock to let his soldier know that there were no limits for them. John reciprocated by leading Sherlock forward. His stoic and dependable nature was exactly what Sherlock needed. Sherlock could let go, could expunge all the repressed needs and desires he’d had no outlet for. John was strong enough to handle it, capable enough to deal with it. Sherlock would never need to be afraid of being vulnerable with John; John was the man who most deserved to see that hidden part of Sherlock, the only one who could understand why Sherlock was both hard and soft inside, how his brilliance and genius were matched with emotional intuitiveness so acute that Sherlock kept it shut away in order to protect himself.

Hours and days trickled by until it was Christmas morning. In between ardent sessions filled with pleasure, the new couple had eaten takeaway, watched a bit of telly, shared showers, and slept. Now, the men lay tangled together in Sherlock’s bed after an energetic bout of wake-up sex, the faint light of the overcast day illuminating the bedroom with silver. “Are we to open presents?”

“I didn’t get you anything other than the decorations.”

“Yeah, you did. You gave me _you_ , the apiary book I got you hardly compares.”

“Oh my god, you bought me _The World History of Beekeeping and Honey Hunting_!”

“How did you guess the specific book? The present isn’t even under the tree yet, it’s still in my room.”

“Pfft, John! I didn’t guess. You know I’m only interested in life-works, and you know perfectly well that when we retire I will want to keep bees. Crane collated so much data, I’ve wanted my own copy for ages, I have the title on several wishlists hoping for the price to go down.”

“Still.”

“Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lay in John’s arms and felt at peace with the world. “I love you, John. I want to give you everything.”

“You already do, love, you make life liveable. I wouldn’t want to live it with anyone else.” John’s arms tightened around Sherlock’s body, holding him closer still, “Rest now, Sherlock. I’ll order in food from that place you like, and we’ll celebrate the holiday our way.”

“We’re going to find a murder to investigate?”

“I’d like to say no but our lives are very strange and it could happen.” John laughed softly as Sherlock smiled into his chest, “What do you say we begin a Christmas sex tradition? Marathon sex all Christmas Day?”

“Irreverent but challenge accepted. You know I’m a scientist John, I will demand repeat performances of any sex act you wish to try, for the data.”

“Madman.” John didn’t sound even a bit upset. “I love you, this is going to be great.” It was. Sherlock had never enjoyed the holidays but then, he’d never had a Christmas like this one, not one where he had a strong ardent lover whose appetite was as endless as his, whose endurance and creativity was rather breath-taking, and who knew exactly how to make Sherlock pliant and receptive, “Yours, Sherlock, I’m all yours.” Life could not possibly contain a greater gift than that.

 


End file.
